


Angvein: Mentorship

by ashdrabbles



Category: Dungeons & Dragons (Roleplaying Game), Original Work
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-31
Updated: 2020-12-31
Packaged: 2021-03-10 18:21:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,636
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28451562
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ashdrabbles/pseuds/ashdrabbles
Summary: Cyrus Durathon was born a rather mundane member of the royal family. He did not possess the natural combat prowess of his elder brother, nor the innate magical ability of his twin sister. Nevertheless, he strove to prove himself. His youth was spent divided between the noble court and the royal libraries, where he diligently studied to become worthy of his title.He owed a large part of that success to Angvein Faust.





	Angvein: Mentorship

Angvein met the boy when he was eight. 

Angvein was dreading his apprenticeship. He was too old to be dealing with screaming, bratty royal children. He needed neither the money nor the noteririty. In fact, he was at an age where he was looking forward to retiring; to put his days of war behind him and live out the rest of his years within rolling hills and quiet contemplation.

But the boy was Marcus’ son. Not even Angvein could not deny a favor from Marcus.

And so it was decided — Prince Cyrus Durathon was to be the student of Angvein Faust, prestigious Wizard of War.

  
  


The boy showed promise. 

He was bright-eyed and minded well. He listened intently to Angvein’s lectures. He was diligent in his meditation. He didn’t utter a single complaint as Angvein gave him tome after tome to study. A perfect student, by all accounts.

He told Angvein that his sister was a self-taught wizard. He asked if Angvein could make him that good at magic. Angvein scoffed. “I cannot _‘make you good’_ at anything, boy. I can only teach you the methods. It is up to you how you apply them.”

The boy looked surprised at his bluntness. Nobody had ever spoken to him like that, he supposed. “Yes, High Marshall Angvein.” 

The title left a sour taste in Angvein’s mouth. It brought back unpleasant memories; the cold steel and the burning bodies. “No need for that. Just ‘ _Angvein’_ will do, boy.” 

  
  


Two years passed, and the boy’s promise had begun to wither.

Not for lack of trying. He buried his nose in his books and minded Angvein’s teachings down to the letter. He could recite the incantations perfectly, but no magic sparked from his fingers. Not even the simplest cantrip. 

Meanwhile, his twin sister was a savant. She knew things that had taken even Angvein years to master. He was impressed — though he did not show it. That girl was not his student and thus not his business. 

It mattered not. The boy would learn soon enough.

  
  


Two more years, no further progress made. The boy was fourteen.

His frustration was intense, like water threatening to boil over the edge of its pot. The bright-eyed student had now grown dark and quick to anger, like a thunderstorm looming overhead. From afar, Angvein sympathized.

The child’s brother was a natural-born king. His twin was a master wizard. Their youngest sister was already devoting herself to priesthood, and there were more children on the way. More savants, knowing Marcus’ blood.

Angvein once had siblings. He remembered what it was like to have his older brother best him at every sword fight. He could still see the thinly-veiled disappointment in his father’s eyes. He recalled what a crushing feeling it was, the pressure to succeed. 

  
  


One day, Angvein decided on a different approach. He stabbed a dagger into the boy's desk and, when the boy jumped, scoffed. “Get up. Take it. Attempt to strike me.”

The boy stewed. “How is that going to help?”

“Do you question your teacher, boy?” 

The boy glared, and returned to his studies. He would not play this game. 

Angvein snarled and knocked the book from his hands with a heavy blow. The boy snapped in protest, but Angvein’s retort was quicker. "Enough of that. We both know it won't help you. All of the books in the world could not help you." 

The insult stung, just as Angvein knew it would. Like a taut string that had suddenly snapped, the boy grabbed the knife and lunged.

Angvein gracefully dodged. “Oh, how sloppy. Didn’t your father ever teach you to hold a blade? Or was he too busy coddling your brother?” With a frustrated cry, the boy lashed out again. Easily, Angvein was able to step aside. “Is this how you expect to win? You aren’t strong and you aren’t fast — for Gods' sake, boy, use your head.”

Frustrated, snarling, the boy threw his fist. When Angvein ducked away, Cyrus predicted his movement and stabbed the dagger into his arm — it bounced harmlessly off of the wizard’s Mage Armor, but they both felt the blow connect.

Simple method and an obvious execution, but it was a start. “Good. Again.”

  
  


Much to Angvein’s distaste, Marcus insisted that the boy learn the workings of the royal court. This meant Angvein had less time with him, and when he did, their teachings shied away from enchantments and incantations, and instead towards tactics. Angvein despised politics, but if the boy was going to be a politician, he would at least be a clever one.

Often, they played chess. A fine exercise in strategy, but also a lesson in understanding his enemies. “If you know your opponent, then you will know how to defeat him.” Angvein explained. 

The boy nodded. He proceeded to set up a trap against his mentor; hanging his queen, and making way for his other pieces to deliver a fatal attack to the enemy king. How very sly.

Angvein looked up from the board and found the boy watching him with a smug grin. “For Gods’ sake, Angvein,” he said, “use your head.”

Pride swelled in Angvein’s chest as he returned the smirk. “Good. Again.”

  
  


When the boy was eighteen, he called Angvein into his study.

“Angvein,” he said, “you have been nothing but a friend to me. In these years, you may not have succeeded in teaching me magic, but you have succeeded in molding me into the man I am today. A man worthy of his title of prince.” He smiled, the slightest turn of his lips that somehow struck Angvein as sad. “And for that, I thank you.”

Cyrus paused for a reply. Angvein felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. Something was wrong.

When he did not get his reply, the smile fell away. Cyrus sighed, and cast his gaze downward. He hesitated only a moment, and then delivered the news matter-of-factly. “You are being reassigned.”

The words stabbed into his heart like daggers, but Angvein Faust was made of stone. He would never let it show. “Under what reasoning?”

“My father asked you to tutor me in the schools of magic. You accepted his request, despite your wishes to retire. Now things have changed, and this—” the boy gestured broadly— “is your chance.”

“I decline the reassignment.” Angvein shot back coldly.

“Angvein, you are growing old—”

“Not too old to knock you on your pompous _ass_ , boy.”

“You deserve a chance to settle down—”

“And better place to do so than Dawnguard? I have servants to wait on me hand and foot, the finest food comes at my beck and call, and I spend my days...” _With an apprentice who has become like a son to me_ , he wanted to say. “... keeping your ego in check. What would you do without me?”

The boy looked grim.

“Is it Marcus?” Angvein growled. “I cannot teach his boy magic and so he’s sending me away?”

“This was not my father’s decision.” He responded quietly. 

“Then whose? Was it your mother? That woman never did like me—”

“It was _my_ decision, Angvein.”

That stopped Angvein cold in his tracks. He hadn’t expected that.

It took Angvein a few moments to process the information. It stung, yes, but it also felt _wrong._ Angvein had been the boy’s tutor for ten years, and he was only just now worried about Angvein’s retirement? Sure, he was growing old, but he wasn’t _feeble —_ and even if he was, he knew the prince. The boy would’ve demanded that he be working even on his deathbed.

In the brief silence, Cyrus refused to meet his gaze. Something was _wrong_.

He suddenly recalled what the boy had said earlier. “What things have changed?”

The boy’s jaw worked as he clenched his teeth. Unclenched them. “As I said, my father hired you because I wanted to learn magic — and as I said, you’ve been unsuccessful. I’ve kept you around because you have been useful in teaching me other things, but now… Now, it is time for me to consider my other options.”

" _Other_ options?" Angvein scoffed, but his heart wasn't in it. “If I cannot teach you, no one can." 

“If you were to stay in the castle," he continued, "I fear you would hinder my future lessons.”

Cyrus reached down to his desk to grab some papers, and Angvein caught a glimpse of his right hand — it was wrapped in a layer of bandages. “So, I’m having you reassigned to a keep in the Quiet Range, where you can retain your servants and your fine food.”

The words wounded his pride. A distant concern. “This isn’t like you. There’s something you’re not telling me, Cyrus.”

“I understand that this is a shock to you, but the motion is already in place. I cannot reverse it.” The boy’s words were empty, his expression cold. Angvein couldn’t believe this — he was being shut out! He sat silently, working through his response, when Cyrus finally looked up and met his gaze. He looked pained, and spoke gently. “I have made my choice. This is for your own good. It will be much easier for everyone if you accept your reassignment with grace, and leave quietly.”

There was something in the boy’s eyes that had changed. What "other" options did he have? What was he planning?

They shared a long look before Angvein narrowed his eyes, and then turned away. “If you think I’m going to leave quietly, then you haven't learned a godsdamn thing, boy.”

But there was little that Angvein could do. The day before his reassignment was scheduled, he gathered his things and left without a word to anyone. Marcus would understand, and the boy—

Well, the boy had made his choice.


End file.
